Animal Tracks
by tempestshakes
Summary: Will Dixon proposes a deal that will save the farm. Hershel is drunk and desperate enough to take it. [arranged marriage au]
1. the beginning

_notes: cross-posted from ao3_

* * *

**the beginning**

* * *

"That's the deal, Greene. Y' want it?"

Hershel stares hard into his whiskey glass, the last drops pooling into a thin amber lake at the bottom. He tips the glass to his mouth, sets it on the damp bar counter, and tugs on his suspenders, righting them, struggling for respectability. There are tears forming in the corners of his eyes and the tremors he feels in his body may either be from drunkenness or from shame. Probably both. Yes. Both.

The man next to Hershel studies his face carefully, like a hunter. The dive light is dim and hazy, and there is something so satisfying for him to see old Hershel Greene, the good and decent farmer, smack dab in the midst of redneck peccadillo. Licking his finely shaped lips, he grins exposing chompers grayed with ciggy smoke and decay.

"Naw, but y' needin' it," he drawls.

Hershel nods, resigned. "Yes, William, I am desperate and I need it."

His companion swishes his saliva loudly and hocks a load of dip spit into his beer can, pausing to study the spittle on the pull tab before saying anything like he's resting comfortably on the tension. "Three years is all y' got. I'mma come after y' lookin' for my dough in three fuckin' years, y' hear? And if it ain't ready for me—_yer girl is mine_."

Wincing as if struck by a blow, Hershel mutters a prayer before looking the man in the eye—they gleam wetly with slosh and wickedness, and Hershel knows what he is about to do is wrong. Desperation does that to a man—takes him by the hand before hacking it off. You don't come back unscathed. It's an illusion, a nasty trick, held together only by the string of need, and Hershel _needs_ what is being offered. It takes all his breath to simply whisper, "Yes."

Will Dixon holds out his palm.

It's a deal.


	2. year one - fall

**year one [fall]**

* * *

"I can't leave Daddy like this," Maggie whispered.

She lay with Beth on their brother's old bed in his old room, glossy red wrapping paper like wet apple peels and an opened gift between them. The gift came from Beth, of course—a ragged cardboard box from the back of the feed store filled with hay and a bus ticket to Atlanta.

"You wouldn't be leavin' forever," Beth reminded sadly, "Just a weekend to see friends. I know you miss 'em, Maggie. I know you do."

Maggie turned her head to face her sister's. Beth's eyes seemed to glow in the dimness, wide set and round and hopeful. Maggie leaned over to press a kiss right above her blonde brow, inhaling the cheap strawberry shampoo both sisters used to save every nickel and dime while still attempting to be presentable, and she sighed.

"I can't leave _you_ like this."

Beth grabbed onto her hand and said with a calmness that belied the youthfulness of her face, "I survived the last time."

Maggie gasped sharply at her sister's words pricking her heart. Her eyes filled with tears she tried to hide. Beth saw and made a soft clucking noise, squeezing Maggie's hand tightly, mimicking her older sister's method of comfort by placing a row of kisses across her forehead. Hiccupping, Maggie tried to smile, but it wavered. "You've got such a good heart, Bethy." She brought their hands up beneath her neck and ignored the ticket crushed between the two of them.

Beth's gaze stayed steady as she murmured, "Happy birthday, Sis."

* * *

When Maggie turned 18, she took off like a comet, running fast to college and the city, away from the farm and the sad stories littering their square of Georgia mud. It overwhelmed; the constant swell of ill-fated events, new sorrows dropping like autumn leaves, like ash from a fire. It didn't help that the Greene family were the sweet sort. Kind. Open-hearted. The kind of family the rest of Senoia prayed for every Sunday at church and sent home casseroles to with the pair of lovely daughters who wore strained, but grateful smiles. The kind of family that was known, pitied, and allowed to fade without the threat of discourteous gossip painting their doorframe. Their grief was public history, but circumscribed and tucked away.

One of those sad stories was her baby sister sitting on their porch swing, skinny arms wrapped around the knees pulled to her chest, watching their work truck kick up dust as Maggie sped away into the sunset. Never could Maggie forget the image 'cause it only took moments before Beth was racing after her, neat, white Dollar General sneakers pounding the earth, tight french braid coming undone about her tears streaked face, those thins arms flapping about as if they could suddenly turn into wings and allow her fly.

"MAGGIE! WAIT!—MAGGIE!" Beth wailed.

But Maggie couldn't stop.

* * *

The front door slammed shut. The noise jostled both girls awake. The alarm clock blinked the time: 2:47 in the morning.

The girls stared at one another with bated breath, waiting.


End file.
